I Never Meant to Kill You
by StandByMe4ever787
Summary: In his eyes, he's a murderer.
1. Chapter 1

"Hello?"

Collins furrowed his brow at the sound of the voice. Why was _he _of all people answering the phone, in his condition?

"Roger?" Collins asked, "Is that you?"

"No," the voice meekly answered, "'s Mark."

Collins was greatly surprised and rather worried. How could Mark sound like that?

"Man, no offense, but you sound like shit," Collins told him truthfully, "Roger worn you out?"

Mark sighed, running a hand through his short, white blonde hair. "Like you wouldn't believe."

"Look man, maybe I should come over for a couple of days—"

"No way," Mark protested groggily, "You're our only way of getting money around here now. It'll be better for you to stay over there, better for all of us."

"How's Benny?"

Although he was thoroughly exhausted, Mark's intestines were set on fire at the mention of his former friend's name.

"Does it matter how Benny's doing?"

"Haven't talked to him, huh?"

"No."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

Suddenly, a thought dawned on Collins.

"Where's Maureen?"

"Huh…what?" Mark snapped to attention, almost falling asleep at the phone.

"Stay focused," Collins ordered, "Where's Maureen?"

"Out," Mark answered simply. He didn't really want to think what Maureen was doing right now.

"When she gets back, tell her that I told her to watch out for Roger for a night or two."

"No," Mark protested, "I can do it."

"When was the last time you had sleep?" Collins asked.

"Three nights ago—"

Suddenly, Mark heard the slamming of a door. Roger's door. He turned his head and stared at his best friend. He leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed and his dark green eyes glaring daggers at Mark. A wave of dread washed over Mark. This wasn't going to be good.

"Who are you talking to?" Roger demanded, his voice hoarse but threatening.

"Collins," Mark answered immediately.

"Oh, I know what you're doing," Roger seethed, making his way over to Mark, "You two are talking about sending me off to a goddamn rehabilitation center. Well, I'm gonna tell you this: I'M NOT FUCKING GOING!"

"Roger," the filmmaker started out quietly, "That's not what we were talking about—"

"Yes it was," Roger interrupted, scorn dripping from his words, "You're gonna put me there, and you're gonna leave me there!"

"No, I'd never—"

"CUT THE CRAP! YOU JUST WANT TO GET RID OF ME SO YOU DON'T HAVE TO DEAL WITH ME AND MY PROBLEMS ANYMORE!" Roger yelled grabbing Mark's left arm ferociously.

"Collins," Mark squeaked into the phone, "We have a little bit of a problem—"

"SEE! I TOLD YOU, YOU SON OF A BITCH!"

"ROGER! LEAVE MARK ALONE!" a female voice shouted.

Both of the men in the room turned towards the sound of the voice and found Maureen Johnson standing helplessly, her brown eyes pleading. Roger immediately let go of Mark.

"Thank you," she acknowledged calmly, "Marky, who's on the phone?"

"Collins," he croaked out.

Maureen squealed, excited by the fact that one of her best friends called. "I want to talk to him! Give me the phone, give me the phone!"

As Mark handed Maureen the phone, she sent a death glare at Roger. "You hurt him while I'm on the phone and your ass is as good as mine."

"Good," Roger mumbled, "At least I'll be getting some action."

"Pig," Mark muttered irritably. He was really sick of Roger's snide comments, though his rage didn't last long at all. In those brief moments, it made him miss Roger's convulsing and helplessness and nausea, which was usually what took up most of Mark's time anyway.

"What was that?" Roger asked him, teeth bared.

"Nothing," Mark yelped. He didn't want to start anything. He knew what Roger could do to him. He had the bruises and scars to prove it.

"Ok, thanks Collins. Bye baby," Maureen finished and hung up the phone.

She grabbed Mark suddenly and pulled him into a small, gentle kiss. A true rarity for Maureen.

"Go to bed," Maureen ordered after pulling away.

"But—"

"Bed."

"Ok."

Maureen watched as her boyfriend's slumping figure limped into their bedroom. When the door shut, she turned to her best friend who had fallen asleep on the floor. She sighed. She hated seeing him like this. She bent down, stuck her arms underneath his armpits and put him on the couch, his head resting on her lap.

She gently stroked his dirty blonde mane of curls and thought about how much he'd been through in his entire life. This was one man who had experienced enough pain. She wanted it to stop for him. But she knew that it wouldn't.

She could feel him beginning to shake and she held him a little closer. Maureen never really saw that much of Roger at night. Whenever she would hear him moaning and groaning, screaming and yelling in the next room over, she'd put her pillow over her head and feel the squeak of the bed moving as Mark got up and went to his best friend.

Suddenly, his shaking turned into harsh convulsing, and he looked like he was having a seizure. Maureen's stomach flopped, and she was just about to get Mark when an ear-shattering scream broke through the silence of the night air.

She squeezed him closer to her and murmured words of comfort.

"Mark," Roger croaked out, in search of the person who always took care of him, "M-Ma-Mark…"

"No baby, no," Maureen cooed, stroking his hair.

Roger's jade green eyes flashed open and Maureen almost recoiled. There was something in his eyes that gave the sense of pure madness. They darted all around the room, confused and anxious.

"April?" Roger questioned, reaching out for Maureen, grabbing at her shirt fiercely, as if he didn't hold on he'd lose her, "April, April! I'm sorry!"

"No, no, no, no, baby, no, it's me, Maureen," she corrected gently, her heart breaking already.

"Reen?" Roger asked again.

Maureen nodded and Roger let out a shuddering breath.

Suddenly, he sat up abruptly and started hacking. It grew louder and louder, reverberating off of the thin walls of the loft. She rubbed small circles on his back while he continued to cough. But soon, with one giant cough, the deep, rich burgundy colored blood sprayed both of them.

"Shit!" Maureen cursed, close to tears, "Where's the phone?"

"M-M….Reen," Roger sighed, wiping his mouth unsuccessfully, "I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what baby?" she hurriedly asked, looking around for the phone. She wanted to stay by Roger's side, but she figured that an ambulance needed to called soon. Why wouldn't Mark wake up?

"Everything," Roger gasped in a short breath, "I killed her. I killed her."

"No you didn't," Maureen stated firmly, now in full attention, "You did not kill April."

"If…If I hadn't of g-given her A-AIDS," he said breathlessly, tears forming in his eyes, "She would still be a-alive!"

Then he threw himself on Maureen and sobbed.

"I didn't mean to!" he cried out, "I d-didn't know I had it! I-I'm a m-m-murderer!"

"Baby, baby, no you're not!" Maureen bawled along with him, "You didn't know! She was the one who committed suicide!"

"I'M A MURDERER!" he screamed, burying his face on Maureen's shoulder, "I'M A MURDERER!"

"NO, no…P-_Pookie_, you're not a murderer!"

"I KILLED THE GIRL I LOVE!" he yelled.

"LISTEN TO ME ROGER!" Maureen howled, tears pouring from her eyes, grabbing Roger's face in her hands, "Listen to me! You are not the one who put April in a depression! You're not the one who made her go into the bathtub that day!"

"Shut up, Reen," Roger muttered.

"You're not the one who grabbed a knife or a razor or whatever the hell it was and slit her wrists open and watched as the blood came flowing out!"

"Shut up, Reen!" Roger ordered, his hands grabbing hers to pull them off of his face.

"You're not the one," Maureen cried, "who went and wrote that fucking note that said 'We've got AIDS'! You're not the one who's leaving yourself in heartbreak and hell right now!"

"SHUT UP, REEN!" Roger shouted, and although without very good aim, struck Maureen.

She fell back on the couch and squeezed her eyes shut. She just wanted all of this to fade away. This was a bad dream. This was a nightmare. She was going to wake up in Mark's arms. Or, maybe even better, Joanne's arms. This was all going to end.

She opened her eyes. Roger was shaking furiously, his green eyes bloodshot, his muscles aching, his entire body curled up into a ball.

She closed her eyes.

* * *

Maureen stumbled out of the room she shared with Mark. She surveyed the scene in front of her. Mark was at the metal table, reading The Village Voice and sipping on coffee. Weird. She hadn't seen Mark so calm in ages. Suddenly, guilt washed over her. Now she was going to have to break his calmness.

"Hi, Maureen," Mark greeted in a low whisper, getting up from the table to come to her.

"Hey Pookie," she said back and dutifully received a kiss on the cheek, "Why are we whispering?"

Mark pointed, and Maureen spotted Roger splayed all over the couch, snoring loudly.

"He hasn't slept so soundly in weeks, probably a month," Mark remarked, studying his best friend curiously, "What did you do to him last night?"

Maureen sighed, running a hand through her dark brown hair, "You couldn't hear? Mark, you're a fucking log."

"Sorry," Mark apologized sheepishly, "What happened last night?"

A few tears almost came to her eyes at the very thought of it. "Mark, I thought I would have to call an ambulance to come pick him up last night, he was so terrible…"

"What happened? What'd he do?" Mark demanded.

"Well, at first he was ok. Just sleeping. Then he started shaking and woke up. He was coughing up blood…..and he started ranting…"

Maureen hid her face from Mark. She was determined to never let him see her weak.

"That's what he usually does every night," Mark informed her in a grave tone, "You probably just weren't used to it. It's ok."

"Mark….Pookie, I don't know if I can get used to it," Maureen started.

"Well, no one can exactly, but—"

"Let me finish," Maureen commanded and then continued, "I don't think I can handle seeing one of my best friends since freshmen year torturing himself like this."

"Torturing himself?" Mark questioned, "Is he cutting himself?"

"You don't get it, do you?" Maureen asked sarcastically, pushing her way past Mark, "He's torturing himself _emotionally_."

"Yeah, I get it!" Mark spoke up.

"Good. And since you get it, and I don't, you wouldn't mind if I stay at a friend's house for a little while, would you?" Maureen asked.

Mark's face dropped. He was completely and utterly surprised. He was so caught off guard and he found himself saying, "No, not at all. I understand. Just call if you need anything."

"Of course," Maureen responded, zipping towards the couch, "Same here."

She bent down and gave Roger a small kiss on the forehead and then quickly made her way towards the sliding door of the loft.

"Don't you want to pack your bags?" Mark questioned helplessly as Maureen stepped out of the loft.

"No, no, I'll come for them later," Maureen replied hurriedly, and then leaned over and gave Mark a quick peck on the lips, "Bye, Pookie!"

The sliding door slammed shut in Mark's face while excruciating moaning could be heard from the couch. Mark quickly sat down next to Roger.

"R-Re-Reen?" Roger called out helplessly.

"She's gone, Roger," Mark informed him flatly, "Maureen left."

"I…..I killed her too?"


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Hello all! Wow, I was expecting that much positive feedback, so thank you very much! Some people thought I should continue this, so I thought, ah, what the hell? Although this probably won't be very long…five, six, seven chapters at most. It all just seems like drabble to me and doesn't really fit together, but it's fun to write. My first multi-chapter RENT story! Hooray!

Oh by the way….the beginning part is rather ditzy…forgive me. If you can tell me anything significant about all of the names I've used for random OC characters in this chapter, you get a little prize!

Hint: I really do love Pascal with all my heart. I just wanted to poke some fun at him….and at the others….

Disclaimer: Jon's characters and sort of his storyline...just doing to them what I want to...(well...I need to borrow Roger some more).

* * *

"So Rog…how many girls did you end up making out with at _this _gig?" 

"Shut up, asshole," Roger retorted, but then began to count to himself: _1, 2, 3…plus that chick with the fake tits equals 4, 5, 6…_

"Alright, ten, Norbert," Roger answered with a smirk, causing the rest of his bandmates to laugh raucously.

"You always did get a lot of attention," Tim supplied, crossing his arms and smiling.

"Damn, have you _ever_ scored ten chicks in one night?" Cary asked arrogantly.

"No," Roger replied truthfully, "Not until tonight. But what about _you_, Cary, dear old buddy of mine?"

"Well, no," Cary mumbled, kicking a small rock as they made their way through Tompkins Square Park towards Roger, Mark, Maureen, Collins, and Benny's loft.

"I have!" Adam exclaimed brightly, pulling his rather sparkly and feminine jeans up, "No lie, seriously-not-fucking-with-you."

The rest of the group rolled their eyes. Adam had always been the dumb blonde…er, now dumb electric blue of the Well Hungarians. Who dyes their hair _blue_? He had wanted to name their band Mute, for fuck's sake! Who names a band Mute when bands are supposed to do the total opposite?

"But fuck man, wouldn't it be eleven?" Norbert asked.

"Why?"

"What about that drag queen?" Cary questioned, chuckling sinisterly.

"Hey, hey, hey," Roger protested, putting his hands up, "She was _hot_! Plus, she could play the shit out of those drums…damn!"

"She, uh, had a _unique_ sense of fashion," Tim chuckled quietly, remembering the drag queen's outrageous ensemble.

"Hey, I'm with Roger, she was hot! Did you _see _those _legs_?" Adam gasped, "And she was pretty clean shaven, no lie, seriously-not-fucking-with-you."

"But hey, did you guys see Jon at the concert tonight?" Norbert asked enthusiastically.

"Yeah!" Cary shouted happily.

"It was awesome he came," Roger agreed. He loved it when he saw his friend around: lately he had been writing vigorously and couldn't stop.

"Definitely."

"Well, home sweet home!" Roger announced as they stopped outside the apartment building, but then suddenly remembered something, "Hey, did you guys happen to catch Mark on our way out? I couldn't find his skinny ass anywhere!"

"Yeah," Tim answered, "He told me that he was going to talk to Matt, Chris, Harley, and Jed for a couple of minutes but he'd be here right after you."

"Thanks Timothy," Roger acknowledged, "And now, I shall sleep and not remember a thing when I wake up in the morning. Goodnight, all!"

The group bid Roger goodnight, except for Adam, who quickly corrected them by saying "Good morning, Roger!"

Once they were out of sight, Roger stepped into the drafty building and made his way up the stairs. Tonight had been great. But, it was missing something. April. She rarely came to his shows anymore. Actually, he barely saw her at all anymore. He didn't even see the very common scraps of paper with her beautiful, flowing poetry on it. She'd disappear into another room after a few minutes of chatting with him, and that would be all he saw of her the whole day until they shot up and had wild sex (he wasn't going to call it "making love"….it wasn't like that at all anymore) all night. Sure, April was good in bed, but he didn't want a fuck buddy. He wanted a girlfriend who would love and support him. And lately, she hadn't been doing a good job of it and he wasn't sure why.

Roger, as gently as he could, threw the door to the loft open and crept inside. He put down his guitar, resting safely inside its case, and made to take off his leather jacket when suddenly, he heard it: water was running. He glanced at the digital clock: 3:46 A.M. He found this slightly curious: why would the water be running at 3:46 in the morning? Why would April decide to take a shower now? Well…it was getting weird, April was taking showers constantly, at least three times a day. Possibly Mark had beaten him home and felt the general stickiness and sweat of the Pyramid Club?

"Mark?" Roger called out softly, not wanting to wake April.

When no sound came, he tried again. "Mark?"

Nothing. Maybe it _was_ his poetic girlfriend…

"April?" Roger whispered, "April?"

Nothing.

"April?" This time a little louder. "April?"

Nothing.

"April?" Roger called out, "April?"

Nothing.

This time with a lot more force. "April?"

This was really weird…

"April!" he shouted, "April!"

Not so much as a shuffle. There was no sound, except for the running of that damn water.

How could she not hear him, even if she was in the shower or just sleeping?

"April!"

Now he was getting angry. Why the hell wouldn't she answer him?

"April Jolayne Ericcson, get out here!" he yelled in rage.

Nothing except for the teasing sound of the water.

He stormed towards the bathroom door, his fists clenched. He unclenched one of them to take hold of the golden door knob. When he did so, he gave it a mighty tug: but to no avail. The door would not open. Roger's brows furrowed: no one ever locked the bathroom door. He started pulling more fiercely, trying to open it. Nothing was working. He shouted once more for April, but still, only water. Roger's stomach began to twist into a knot of nervousness…did something happen to his April behind that closed door? The thought drove Roger mad, and with his strength, he brought back his arm and punched through the door. His right hand seared with pain, but he tried to ignore it for the time being. He quickly found the door knob on the other side and wrenched the door open.

He ran in, looking around wildly. But then suddenly, he felt it: his socks were soaked. He looked down. The floor was flooded. But the odd thing was that the water on the floor was tinged lightly with red….his dark green eyes shot up towards the compact bathtub, where the water was a sinister dark red and overflowing. But pupils immediately dilated when he caught a glimpse of something pale: pale as a ghost. A limp hand was draped over the side of the tub, the malevolent red dripping from the wrist.

He held back a scream as he closed the space between him and tub in two seconds flat. But his scream let loose at the sight in front of him.

There in the tub lied his girlfriend, his heart, his love, his glory. The water had managed to overcome her body, drowning her in its reddened glory. Her white body contrasted eerily, almost beautifully, with the darkness of the water. Yet, although the rest of her body was pale, her face had turned a stormy mix of dark blue and purple.

He closed his eyes. This was a dream. A drunken dream that would go away but bring on one of the worst hangovers of his life.

He opened his eyes and the blood and water was still there. He had the urge to pull his knees up to his chest and sit and just stare at his girlfriend…

But something in his brain suddenly clicked: she wasn't dead. She was alive. She was _alive_. He just needed to help her.

He scrambled and grabbed her, pulling his naked girlfriend out of the torture chamber stained with blood. He pulled her into an intense hug and cradled her, murmuring words of comfort. She was ok, she was going to be alright. She was drenched and stone cold though: he had to keep her warm. He took off his leather jacket and threw it around her. He resumed his rocking and hugging, leaving kisses on her somewhat blue and purple neck. She was ok. She was ok.

He leaned her back from himself to see his progress. He looked into her face. She…she didn't look so bad….

But then, he looked into her eyes. The eyes that were almost identical to his, in color and in spirit. He had noticed over the year and two months of dating her that even though she was sick with the flu, or if she hurt herself physically, or even if something was troubling her emotionally, her eyes never failed to sparkle, even if it was just one, quick glisten. But now, looking into her eyes, he saw nothing. No shining, no happiness, no anger, no sadness. No emotion. He saw nothing. They were blank. Her once living eyes were now completely dead.

That's when he realized that she wasn't alive.

"APRIL!" he screamed, crying into her naked chest, "APRIL, PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME! I FUCKING LOVE YOU! APRIL, APRIL, APRIL!"

He threw his head back, gazing up into the sky, tears lining his eyes. He had always been an atheist: the idea that God existed was just completely preposterous to him. But he found that in such a desperate time, his beliefs could be abandoned.

"PLEASE GOD, DON'T TAKE APRIL AWAY FROM ME, I'M BEGGING YOU! PLEASE DON'T LET HER DIE, I NEED HER, YOU DON'T! PLEASE LEAVE HER ALONE!"

He turned his attention back to his girlfriend and continued to sob.

"APRIL! APRIL, APRIL! APRIL!" Roger shouted, "MARK! MARK, HELP ME MARK! MARK! APRIL, APRIL, APRIL!"

"Please," Roger whispered to himself, shaking, "help."

But he realized, no one was coming. He was going to stay like this with his dead girlfriend for the rest of eternity.

"ROGER!" a panicked yell: Mark's panicked yell.

It didn't register to Roger anymore. He was numb to everything else around him.

"ROGER, WHERE ARE YOU? ROGER!"

Something caught Roger's eye: a post-it. He reached out for it eagerly, praying that it would pertain to some sort of clue to the death of his girlfriend. The first thing he noticed that it was in her neat, tidy scrawl. But it wasn't the least bit poetic. It was simple. But with this little piece of simples, the jigsaw puzzle suddenly fit.

"We've got AIDS"

AIDS?

_AIDS? _

AIDS.

**AIDS. **

_AIDS. _

_**AIDS. **_

………

AIDS.

After a long time he felt shaking hands on his shoulders.

"Roger," Mark's quivering voice rasped, "Let go of her."

"No," Roger snarled, holding onto April fiercely, "Leave us alone."

"Roger, please," Mark begged, beginning to pull Roger up, "Just let go of her. We're going to get someone to come and help her."

"SHE'S DEAD, YOU FUCKING IDIOT!" Roger shouted, fighting against him, dropping April's body to the wet, pink tiled floor in the process.

He beat his fists against Mark's chest, and if they weren't so weak, Mark would have been knocked to the floor. Mark fully hoisted Roger up, surprising himself. He started to drag him out of the bathroom, all the while; the musician kicked and screamed out in pain.

* * *

The musician kicked and screamed out in pain from his recurring nightmare. It never left him alone. There was never a single night when that nightmare left him. It clouded his inner consciousness at night and was somehow on his mind all through the day. The real-life nightmare never let him be, never let him rest in peace. 

"Roger, Roger," a surprisingly calm voice whispered, the figure shaking him, "Are you alright?"

The songwriter muttered a few incoherent words and began hacking. It didn't surprise the filmmaker. This happened every night and would continue to happen every night.

"M-Ma-Mark?" Roger croaked out in agony, reaching out towards his best friend, "Where are you?"

"I'm right here," Mark answered and pulled Roger into a tight hug.

He continued to squeeze his best friend hard, even if he couldn't squeeze him back. He lightly knew of the pain the musician was going through: he only witnessed it, capturing all of his best friend's movements with his ice blue eyes like a swift and continuing camera, recording them inside the depths of mind.

"Mark," Roger started weakly, clinging to the filmmaker as if he were a life support, which, in a way, was one hundred percent true.

"Yeah?" Mark asked, looking down at his friend.

"W-Will you always be here…._for me_?" Roger questioned simply.

"I will _always_ be here for you, Roger. _Always_," Mark responded confidently, stroking Roger's dirty blonde locks.

_I'll always be here for you because you're going to die before me anyway. _


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Hi guys. I just wanted to explain a little bit about the story: all it really is is stories about important points during Roger's withdrawal (such as Maureen leaving the loft, Collins being away, Mark being the one to take care of him, how Roger's doing with his withdrawal, coping April's suicide, etc.) and things earlier on that made Roger think that he was a murderer (such as this chapter). Also, I know that so far there will be at least one chapter in Mark's point of view. Just wanted to explain! This was kind of a hard chapter to write….very emotional and just…..hard.

Disclaimer: Nada.

"Don't forget: Friday is FATHER/SON DAY! The day when you show your fathers how much you love and respect them by treating them to lunch on your own school campus! This is always a day that the board and the administration looks forward to—"

"Wonder why...cha-ching, bada-bing!" Mark whispered sarcastically into his best friend's ear.

Roger snorted lightly in response, much different from his usual obnoxious laugh. He felt funny. He looked down. His hands were shaking.

"—That will be all for announcements. Have a good afternoon, and remember to remind your fathers about tomorrow!"

The bell rang, shattering the eardrums of most of the students. Roger didn't pay much attention to it though and slipped out as quickly as he could. He exited the school building without packing any books: he knew he wasn't going to do homework.

"So," Mark started, coming up behind him and grabbing his shoulder, "What shall we do on this glorious Thursday afternoon?"

"Don't you have _tango lessons _to get to?" Roger asked with a Cheshire cat grin, knowing that it made his friend feel inferior.

Mark stared at the ground, trying to hide his shame and embarrassment. "Y-yeah, but I was thinking I'd ditch."

"GASP! You'd ditch tango lessons with NANETTE for ME?! Oh Marky, you're so generous! And I'd never expect it from someone like _you_—"

"You know what, man: never mind," Mark snapped, hurt, "I don't feel like hanging out with you today _anyway_."

"Ugh, I'm crushed," Roger retorted sarcastically, putting a hand to his heart and closing his dark green eyes.

His best friend huffed and sped up and away from Roger. Roger flicked him off behind his back.

_What's his fucking problem? Can he not take any _teasing _today_? _Poor baby, probably ran off to go be a Mama's Boy…_

He suddenly found it rather chilly and pulled his forest green sweatshirt tighter around himself and yanked the hood over his dirty blonde head. Good. Now he felt better: secure, warm. Plus, he loved wearing the hood: for some reason, he found it as a great source of entertainment, probably because his father always used to pull it down over Roger's head when he wasn't paying attention. He started tugging mercilessly on the green strings that hung by the neck of the sweatshirt, making the hood fit tighter on his head and almost choking himself.

_I'm choking! Help me, please! Help me, Good Lord Jesus, help me! Ah…the agony still stands strong…God, I'm coming, hold on! _

He couldn't help but chuckle lowly at his….uniqueness, Roger liked to call it. For some reason, he found the idea of death hilarious. He actually contemplated death a lot. What happens after you die? What do people think about as they are dying? Is there pain as their lives slowly ebb away into sheer darkness? Is it sheer darkness, or do you the light at the end of the tunnel? What _is _death, and why does it happen?

_Why does it happen? Why does death happen? That's funny. _

"EMO KID!" a voice shouted, and raucous laughter followed.

Roger knew that the insult was being directed towards him. He wasn't stupid. It wasn't the comment that bothered him as much as the laughter.

The laughter: it seemed as if it permanently rang in his ears, giving the impression that those kids followed him everywhere he went, doing nothing but laughing, laughing, laughing.

He felt funny again, so he took the hood off.

* * *

"Are you home, sweetheart?" his mother's voice questioned quietly from the kitchen.

"Yeah," Roger replied, carelessly dropping his backpack on the carpeted floor.

"Are you hungry?"

"No."

Suddenly, his mother made an appearance by the entranceway to the kitchen, catching Roger in the hall. "Honey, you never eat anymore."

"I eat more than you," he pointed out coldly, staring at his mother's sickly thin body.

Mrs. Davis tried to hold back tears. "T-this isn't the time to talk about that."

"Then leave me alone," her son told her bluntly, stomping up the stairs.

She crossed her arms, hugging herself. "Do you want to talk about something else?"

"No."

With that, he slammed the door to his room. He was angry with his mother, for sure. But he was livid with himself: it was his fault, after all.

He trudged straight into the adjoining bathroom: probably the only room besides Roger's bedroom that needed to be cleaned spotless. He immediately snatched a razor from the cabinet next to the mirror and stared at it hard. It wasn't like he hadn't done it before.

He twisted it around in his hands cautiously, studying it precipitously. He knew kids cut because they were depressed and it made them feel better, yada yada yada. But mainly, according to specialists on this type of thing, the cutting actually physically felt great because of emotions crossing over to physicality. But no, it hurt Roger's arm: hell, it felt like flames were rising from his forearm. So why didn't he stop? He was frustrated with himself, enraged. He deserved it, right?

"Roger, sweetie, could you come down here please?"

_Shit. _The blood flowed freely and wildly, taking over his whole arm quickly like a disease.

"Yeah, I'm coming!" Roger called back down to his mother, searching frantically for a long bandage. He decided to just use a whole bunch of Band-Aids instead and pull his sleeve down.

"Yeah?" he asked as he tromped down the stairs.

"Honey," his mother started off with a big breath, "You know what tomorrow is?"

"I'm assuming you got the invitation the school sends out," Roger told her lazily.

"Right," she sighed, "Would you like me to go with you?"

"No," he answered immediately, "No. Do you know how weird that would be, the kid and his mom at Father/Son Day?"

"I know, sweetie, but it's the best I can do," his mother told him honestly, tears in her brown eyes.

"But it's not good enough," Roger quipped coldly.

Mrs. Davis let out a shaky breath, fighting the urge to sob right then and there. "I'm so sorry, Roger. I'm so sorry….no one means for these things to happen. They just do. You didn't deserve this, and neither did I. Roger, it's not your fault. You do know that, don't you?"

The slamming of the door answered her.

* * *

"Hey man," Mark greeted enthusiastically, clapping Roger on the back, "Look, sorry about blowing up at you yesterday. I was just frustrated."

Roger nodded.

"Wanna hang with me and my dad?"

Roger shook his head furiously.

Mark frowned. "Come on, Rog. It'll be fun! You can be my biiiiig brother!"

Before his best friend could shake his head again, Mark's father came up behind them, all smiles.

"Hello, Roger," Mr. Cohen greeted smoothly.

Roger didn't fall for it. He knew Mr. Cohen was just being polite for the sake of keeping up appearances.

"How are you?"

"He feels fine, Dad," Mark jumped in quickly, understanding that Roger wasn't going to talk.

"So what do you want to do on glorious Father/Son Day?"

"The dunking booth. I want to dunk you so bad for grounding me last weekend…" Mark trailed off with an evil smile on his face.

"Son, you and I both know that you can't throw worth anything," Mr. Cohen retorted seriously, "But did you hear about the concert they're giving?"

"No, didn't catch that. Damn, they're going all out!" Mark exclaimed.

"Don't swear," Mr. Cohen warned, "Come on, let's go see it, you too Roger."

Roger opened his mouth to speak, but then remembered he had taken a personal vow of silence and quickly shut it.

"Dad, leave Roger alone. He doesn't want to."

"Come on, kid," Mr. Cohen told Roger, hoisting him up, "I know you love music. Let's go."

He would have punched him. But then he'd lose his best friend. And he'd gain another year in school, just as he was finishing up his years, waiting for the high school diploma impatiently.

A crowd had gathered by a small, black stage that was set up on the front lawn of the school. There stood a girl, a sophomore, at the microphone. Her dad was seated in a chair behind her.

Strumming a guitar.

Roger felt himself go weak. He felt dehydrated, he felt faint, he felt nauseous, he felt dizzy, he felt a searing pain in his chest. Images flashed before him in his mind, a mini-cinema with a wide screen and stadium seating. But he was the only one watching.

* * *

A muscular, handsome man with glowing dark green eyes strummed an acoustic guitar fiercely, singing a Beatles tune.

The man suddenly had a kid of about four in his arms, identical to himself. The man pulled a forest green hood over the kid's head, and the boy screamed with delight.

Suddenly, the boy was ten, the man facing him. They each had an acoustic guitar in their grasps. The same Beatles tune was played.

Suddenly, the boy was thirteen. But no man faced him; no man carried him in his arms. He was alone, save for the ambulance technicians in his house, pushing a stretcher covered with a long, white sheet. The only thing that hung out was a needle that was stuck in a fleshy arm. The needle glinted malevolently at the boy, staring him down. It grinned at him maliciously. _He loved me more than he loved you. This. Was. All. Your. Fault. _

* * *

"ROGER!"

"HOLY SHIT KID, SNAP OUT OF IT!"

Mark shook him fiercely, but nothing worked. Roger was still on the ground, sobbing and shaking violently. The crowd of people made a large circle around him, staring at him in wonderment.

It was his fault. Somewhere along the line….he screwed up. Thanks to that, heroin became his father's favorite thing. Before playing the guitar. Before pulling the hood over his son's head. Before his wife. Before Roger. No, Roger was now second-best in his father's heart.

Roger screwed up, and he killed his father.


End file.
